The Heretics

Chapter 10

SHAKESPEARE WAS SITTING on the bench in the booth, leaning against the wall with his feet on the table. He looked up as Boltfoot ushered Augustus Swinehead and the old woman into the taproom, then rose and walked over to them. He placed a hand on his assistant’s shoulder. ‘Well, what have you brought me, Boltfoot?’

‘She was in the gatehouse. Won’t tell me her name. Looks like a nun to me.’

‘He is a man of great wit, your little fellow,’ the woman said.

‘Indeed he is.’ Shakespeare stared at her. She was undoubtedly a nun and, from the tuneful timbre of her voice, he imagined that she might be Irish.

‘She insists she will say nothing to you, but it occurred to me, master, that she could have been sent here by Rome and that she has entered the country illegally, which is counted high treason.’

‘You may well be correct, Boltfoot. Is he correct, mistress?’

‘I have never entered any country illegally in my life. I was here before this usurper came to the throne and I shall still be here after she has died and gone to hell, God willing.’

‘What is your name?’

‘And why should I answer your questions? Who are you to be inquiring of such things?’

Shakespeare turned to the landlord. The man was terrified. He knew what could become of those who harboured priests or those deemed traitors. ‘What is this woman’s name, Mr Swinehead?’

‘Michael . . . Sister Michael.’

‘Tell him nothing, Augustus. There is no crime committed so he has no power over you.’

Augustus Swinehead put his hands to his head and dug his cracked fingernails into his scalp. He could not decide whether to look to the woman or to his interrogator. ‘Mr Shakespeare, please—’

‘Now I ask you again, Mr Swinehead. Who is this woman and what was she doing in the gatehouse? If you answer honestly, it may go well with you. If you do not . . .’ He left the other possibility hanging in the air.

The woman stepped forward and pushed Swinehead away. ‘You are a poor sort of man, Swinehead. Will you lack courage like this at the judgment? If so, then I know which way you will be sent. Fetch me brandy and be done with you.’ She turned to Shakespeare with a face of stone-hard loathing. ‘Very well, I will tell you what you want. Swinehead says you want to know about Thomasyn Jade.’

The landlord produced a small cup of brandy, which the woman took from his quaking hand. She threw the contents down her throat. Shakespeare studied her more closely. Her black habit was crusted in dirt. She wore a common coif that had become as grey as the strands of knotted hair that protruded around her forehead and temples. He estimated her age in the region of sixty but realised he could be ten years out either way.

‘Oh, I know all about Thomasyn Jade. When first I saw her there were more dirty, wicked devils in her than a hive has bees. But she was not a fool; she knew she needed our help and came to us willingly to have the demons cast out. Nor did she run away, even when her trials were hard and full of great pain. Six months she was with us and we worked day and night to free her with our prayers and supplications. Father Weston prayed on his knees all night every night. He was racked to the limits of endurance with the agony and his eyesight was failing, yet never did he cease to pray. Those months almost brought the father to his death from pain and exhaustion.’

Shakespeare was having none of it. ‘She was brought to you against her will and you held her prisoner, just as you did with all the others. It was all a trick to convert those who witnessed or were subjected to your trickery and foul superstitious rites.’

‘Think what you like, Mr Shakespeare. I know the truth, for I was there. She could have gone at any time, but then she would never have been rid of the evil. She ran from your fine friends, though, didn’t she? Lady Susan and her damnable coven. She ran from them as soon as she could.’

‘How do you know of Lady Susan?’

The old woman laughed with scorn. ‘We know everything that goes on in this realm of sin and heresy. We have friends everywhere, in the palaces and the courts of law. Do you think we don’t? Do you think this pseudo-religion can survive? It will be cast out as surely as the demons were expelled from Thomasyn Jade.’

‘Where is she?’

Sister Michael looked Shakespeare directly in the eye. He saw no fear there, only reproach.

‘Perhaps Father Weston will tell you. Why do you not ask him? You must know where he is for you keep him in your dungeons, even though he is frail and sick. As for myself, I have told you all I will say. You have no power over me for I took my vows in the reign of Queen Mary, so I was here in the days before the accession of the usurper and contravene none of your heretical laws.’

At this, she dropped to her knees and began to pray silently. Shakespeare removed the paper he had found from his doublet and held it up. ‘You know what this is. I found it in your coffer. This paper could hang you, mistress.’

The nun kept her eyes shut.

‘It is a map of routes and safe houses. You are organising the secret transport of young men and women to the seminaries and convents of Europe. This is so, is it not?’

She did not move nor acknowledge his presence.

‘These initials are your contacts in these towns. They provide safe lodging for the would-be priests and nuns as they make their way to the coast. And the ones in the coastal ports organise berths upon vessels to France or the Spanish Low Countries. Answer me or face yet greater consequences!’

At this, a quiet smirk seemed to cross the old woman’s lips.

‘And then there is the matter of the money. Funds from Rome to pay travel expenses, yes?’

At last he got a reaction. Her eyes opened and he detected a glow of such cold revulsion that it almost seemed she was the one possessed. Shakespeare tried hard to contain his own fury. He held up the jar of money, which he had counted out to forty-two pounds and a few shillings. ‘This will remain as crown property until you can prove ownership. As for questioning, I will not press you further this night. Boltfoot, you will hold this woman under armed guard until morning, when you will escort her to London and have her held in Bridewell.’

Boltfoot lifted his caliver.

‘And you, Mr Swinehead, will think very carefully what else you might wish to tell me, unless you, too, desire a journey to the treadmill and whipping post.’

Shakespeare slept lightly. In the morning, he found Boltfoot and the nun in the taproom, where he had left them. She was still on her knees, in prayer, her eyes closed. He ignored her, spoke briefly to Boltfoot and gave him money to buy food for himself and the woman, and to hire a horse.

‘I will see you in Dowgate this evening.’

Shakespeare rode alone. The road was pitted, but he made good progress and was at Dowgate by late morning. He found Jane still out of sorts and reassured her that Boltfoot would soon be home.

‘This came for you last night, master,’ Jane said, handing him a letter. He recognised the seal as Cecil’s and sliced it open with his dagger.

Mr Mills is sick and frenzied. I can no longer spare you on the matter of Thomasyn Jade. Go to The Ruth at Gravesend without delay.

Shakespeare uttered a low curse and threw the letter into the hearth. He wrote a brief reply with news of Denham, then walked at a brisk pace to the Old Swan waterstairs.

‘Queen’s business!’ he called, striding to the front of the mass of people awaiting tilt-boats. A pair of young men dressed in black like lawyers were clambering into a four-oarsmen barge, but Shakespeare ordered them out.

‘Damn you, sir, we have business at Greenwich Palace.’

Shakespeare thrust his letters patent from Robert Cecil before their eyes. ‘Argue with that if you will.’

Grudgingly, they made way for him and he commanded the oarsmen to row him to Gravesend with all haste. The journey was long and tiresome and when he arrived, he saw that he was too late. The Ruth was already being unloaded.

‘The investors would not wait another day,’ Captain Roberts said, as they sipped wine from Bordeaux in his cabin. ‘I had no option in the matter but to let her be discharged and lay off most of the crew.’

‘You could have said Sir Robert Cecil ordered the cargo impounded.’

The captain smiled. ‘Indeed, I might, but the investors included Sir Robert’s own father, Lord Burghley, as well as the Earl of Essex and the Mayor of London. Since this war started, French wine sells at a fine price. Investors want their money in their coffers, not wallowing in casks aboard ship. And after Mr Topcliffe’s visit, I had no more cause to delay.’

‘Topcliffe was here?’

‘Why, yes, not twenty hours since. Sent by Sir Robert Cecil like your good self, sir. And I hope I do not speak out of turn in saying it was a most uncomfortable experience for all concerned.’

‘God’s wounds, Mr Roberts! Tell me what happened.’

‘He lined up the crew, called them papist dogs and threatened them with the rack if they did not speak out and denounce the traitors among them. We were all mighty bewildered.’

‘What did he discover?’

‘Nothing. He scared all the men into utter silence.’

So with Shakespeare away and Mills incapacitated, Cecil had panicked and brought in Topcliffe. He was the last person to extract information by subtle means.

‘However,’ Roberts continued, ‘all may not be lost. When things had calmed down, I made some inquiries of my own among the crew, and I did find one man who knew the dead mariner, though not as a friend. He begged me not to reveal this information to Topcliffe.’

‘Don’t worry. His name will not be revealed to Topcliffe by me. Where is this man now?’

‘Still with us, grumbling at being kept from the bawdy houses and drinking dens. His name is Jed Yorke. He is an ordinary seaman. Wait here and I will have him brought to you.’

‘And I would like to see the dead man’s box, where the letter was found.’

‘Of course. I have it here.’

Roberts called in a midshipman and sent him to get Yorke, then fished under his bed, which was short and narrow, seeming scarce big enough for a child of twelve. He fetched out scraps of wood that had once been the box, a cup, a tin eating vessel and a knife.

‘That’s it, Mr Shakespeare – or all that remains of it after the the searchers broke it apart.’

Shakespeare examined the objects. They were cheap, everyday things, without markings on them. The box was no more than firewood.

The midshipman returned with Jed Yorke, an unremarkable man with long whiskers and a brow lined by a great many sea-winds. He bowed in deference to the captain and then to Shakespeare, clutching a felt cap tightly.

‘Mr Yorke,’ Shakespeare said, ‘I believe you knew the dead mariner.’

‘Yes, master. He called himself Franklin Smith.’

‘Did you doubt that was his real name?’

‘I doubt it of all mariners, sir. Many seafarers have reason to go under aliases. Wives they never wish to see again, justices they wish to escape . . .’

‘I understand. Tell me, what did you make of Mr Smith?’

‘He was not a seasoned mariner, sir. He did not know the ways of a ship. I would say he could not tell a capstan from a keel.’

‘Indeed.’ Shakespeare turned to the captain. ‘Where is the corpse, Mr Roberts?’

‘Fifty fathoms deep, Mr Shakespeare. Stitched in canvas and buried at sea.’

‘And his clothes?’

‘Dispersed among his crewmates.’

‘And his crewmates are all gone. Mr Yorke, did you have any of his apparel?’

‘Only his cap, master.’ He held out the cap. ‘This.’

‘What is it worth?’

‘It is a poor thing, in truth. No more than a groat.’

Shakespeare took the cap and examined it. He slit it open and felt inside the lining for secret messages, but there was nothing. ‘Now tell me more. I want to know of all your conversations.’

‘He did not talk much, but there was one thing I recall, master.’

‘Yes?’

‘He asked me where he could get a berth to work his passage from the Thames to the east of England. He wanted to go to Wisbech.’

Wisbech. A papist fastness in the east. The words of Garrick Loake came gusting back. He had said the plot ‘wafts from the papist fastness of the east, gathers force in the seminaries of Spain, but it will blow into a tempest here. A conspiracy the like of which England has never seen.’ Wisbech was certainly a papist fastness, for it was in the castle of that eastern port that the most aggressive of the country’s renegade Catholic priests were interned.

‘Did he say why, Mr Yorke?’

‘He said his home was near there.’

‘And what did you tell him?’

‘I told him I had no idea, master, for it is the truth. I do not even know quite where Wisbech is, though I believe it to be near the Wash.’

‘Did he talk with anyone else about this matter?’

‘I do not know.’

‘Very well.’ He gave the man the remains of the cap, and sixpence compensation for its destruction. ‘Thank you, Mr Yorke. That will be all.’